


Tequila And Tears (And Terrible Advice)

by oscarwildee (oscarwildebabe)



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Bad Advice, Crack, Drunk Texting, Drunken Confessions, Gen, Humor, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Other, Pre-Season 5, Relationship Advice, Relationship Problems, Two Boys Being Dramatic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 10:31:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21372697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oscarwildebabe/pseuds/oscarwildee
Summary: Jeremiah sniffed, still facedown on the bar. “You ruined our relationship.”“I doubt that, considering you were the one who apparently got caught crawling through his window, which, by the way, you could be arrested for. On multiple counts.”“That was one time.”Oswald and Jeremiah cross paths in a bar and spend the night bonding over their respective and equally problematic (and unrequited) relationships.(Oneshot)
Relationships: Jeremiah Valeska/Bruce Wayne, Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma, both are incredibly one-sided, but what else is new - Relationship
Comments: 17
Kudos: 159





	Tequila And Tears (And Terrible Advice)

**Author's Note:**

> This idea was spawned in a tumblr group chat and I just had to write it so...here ya go!

The opening notes of “Unchained Melody” were just starting up as the front doors to the Stacked Deck, one of Gotham City’s most popular bars in the criminal underworld, swung open. As the Righteous Brothers began crooning out something about how time went by slowly, a few heads turned to stare at the figure standing in the doorway, before looking away in a combination of respect and self-preservation.

Oswald Cobblepot scowled at the one or two braver patrons who continued to maintain eye contact after the first five seconds of his arrival, but turned his back on them and made a beeline for the bar, shedding his coat behind him without looking back. He knew there would be someone to swoop down and hang it up for him, and besides, he was focused on a very specific purpose on this particular night.

If Oswald was walking the streets at Gotham at three in the morning, there was guaranteed to be one thing on his mind and one thing only. 

“Five tequila shots,” he snapped at the bartender, who looked more than a little shocked that the self-professed king of Gotham had ended up in this particular less-than-high-class bar. “Make it quick.”

The man nodded and hurried off, and Oswald glared in his general direction, not because he was mad at the bartender, but because he was mad in general. He was mad at the fact he’d let himself end up here, he was mad that “Unchained Melody” was playing, he hated “Unchained Melody” and whoever thought it was a good idea to play it in a bar where people came to forget their problems, anyway? Wasn’t it the ultimate anthem to those lost and lonely hearts that pined after certain _(that pretentious green beanpole shithead of a bitch)_ people who seemed disgustingly intent on ignoring you even when you did everything and more to get their attention and, possibly, love?

Anyway, he wasn’t in a good mood tonight.

The bartender returned a few moments later, carefully lining up each shot glass in front of Oswald, who gave him another glare for good measure. The man scurried off, not wanting to be in the line of fire if Oswald started throwing said shot glasses at him—the Penguin had a bit of a reputation for a temper in the city, and getting broken glass lodged in his head wasn’t exactly on the bartender’s agenda for the night. 

Watching him leave, scowl still in place, Oswald picked up the first glass and downed it in one gulp before setting it down again with a thud that sounded, annoyingly, more like a clink.

He was going to get inhumanly drunk tonight, and he was going to enjoy himself.

Unfortunately, having spent the last several years of his life ingesting alcohol on a regular basis—a _very _regular basis, and he was aware that it may or may not be a bit of a problem at this point—Oswald had developed a high tolerance, and it would take _much _more than five measly little tequila shots for him to get satisfyingly drunk.

He wasn’t about to wait for the bartender to come creeping back to get a refill, so he reached over the bar and grabbed the bottle himself, replenishing the empty array of small glasses in front of him. He was still frowning, and he didn’t feel any better, and “Unchained Melody” was beginning to get a little more than unbearable. If they didn’t change the music in a minute, he was going to have to do something about that.

This time, when he picked up a freshly-refilled shot glass, he sipped it slowly, disregarding any sort of tried and true getting-drunk-on-tequila techniques that admittedly would have served him a bit better, given the circumstances. He just didn’t care anymore, it was all so _annoying, _how that skinny bastard (Oswald didn’t even want to _think _his name) kept ignoring or outright denying him whenever he tried to say something. Sure, they’d had their ups and downs, a few murder attempts and the occasional profession of eternal hatred, but those were just minor roadblocks in relationship-building, right? After all, this was Gotham…people killed other people’s girlfriends and threatened them with death and got revenge by displaying them in a block of ice all the time.

It wasn’t like it was anything they couldn’t get over.

Ed was just being stubborn.

Oswald sighed, staring down at the shot glasses. He’d consumed seven at this point, most in rapid succession, and his head was beginning to buzz pleasantly at this point. “Unchained Melody” had, blessedly, switched to something more upbeat that he couldn’t quite make out, and when he thought back on his problems that he’d just outlined to himself, drenched in self-pity, they didn’t seem so bad anymore.

Maybe things weren’t so terrible.

Then the door was slammed open and Oswald heard footsteps behind him, just before someone sat down directly next to him and asked the waiter, who was looking like he would much rather be somewhere else, for a vodka sprite.

Just like that, things were terrible again.

It wasn’t that he had anything personal against Jeremiah Valeska, who happened to be the newcomer next to him. He certainly preferred him to his brother…when Jerome was alive, Oswald would have happily disemboweled the infuriating redhead at the first opportunity. But he’d been planning on getting drunk _alone, _sharing his misery with no one but himself…

And now that insufferable _child _of a criminal had the audacity to sit right next to him and order a vodka sprite like he owned the place.

“Excuse me,” Oswald said frostily, twisting in his seat to glance over at his new companion, who ignored him, “but there seem to be plenty of empty spots in this bar. None of which you chose to occupy.”

Jeremiah gave him a scathing side-eye which rivaled that of an irate house cat, and said nothing. Oswald sighed dramatically, making a show of how much of an inconvenience it was to have this wannabe-crime lord (in the most _hideous _purple suit he’d ever seen, who was this kid’s tailor and did he know he should be fired immediately?) sitting next to him. Jeremiah heard the sigh, rolled his eyes, and didn’t move an inch. They were equally petty individuals, and their matching moods of half-despair, half-resentment weren’t helping matters.

The bartender brought Jeremiah his drink, which he took aggrievedly and immediately began to consume as rapidly as possible. It was clear that he was here for a very similar reason as the man next to him.

“Well,” Oswald finally spoke up again, becoming resigned to his momentary fate of having to share the night—and possibly discuss his woes—with his newfound companion, “what brings you here? Aren’t you supposed to be getting your beauty sleep?” He was going to say something clever and stinging like _you need it, _but he wasn’t invested enough to hurl insults right now. Instead, he turned back to his tequila. 

Jeremiah sipped his vodka sprite desolately, perfectly styled eyebrows drawn together into a frown as he stared at the bottles lining the back wall of the bar. He was the picture of despondency, and Oswald felt almost sorry for him for a moment before remembering why he himself was there and assuring himself that his own problems were likely much more valid than anything this clown could come up with.

“I don’t need sleep.” Jeremiah replied, voice echoing into his glass as he returned for another sip. “I’ll only dream of things I never know will come true and wake up in worse despair than before.”

“That’s a bit more information than I was asking for,” Oswald said drily, setting down his glass, “but go on, if you must.” He never would have, in normal circumstances, encouraged anyone to talk about themselves, preferring himself to be the topic of the conversation, but he was both drunk and feeling generous right now, and after all, the kid looked like he was in need of cheering up. And, in the less-easy-to-admit department, it got his mind off his own sorrows. “Tell me your problems.”

“Who do you think you are, some kind of shrink?” Jeremiah glared at him over the top of his own glass. “I didn’t come here to talk about my personal life to _you, _or anyone else.”

“Oh, yes you did.” Oswald, who knew very well that Valeskas would do anything to be the center of attention, gave him a knowing look. “Besides, I can offer you the best advice you’d ever ask for.” That was also something he would never say under normal circumstances, but the near-lethal amount of alcohol that was rushing through his head at the moment assured him that he was the _expert _in giving advice and why wouldn’t anyone want to listen to him? He was the wisest, the smartest, the best trained man in this entire city to give advice to naive beginners just starting out in their relationships, and this was the perfect opportunity to display that knowledge, wasn’t it? Jeremiah would thank him for his endless store of tips and tricks, and he’d certainly think it was the greatest advice in the entire world…no, the entire universe, and Oswald was more than happy to bestow some of his expertise here and now.

“I highly doubt you could help my with my problems, Cobblepot.” Jeremiah was saying stonily, halfway through his drink. He leaned back in his seat and ran a hand through his hair. It was usually combed impeccably, every single strand in place, but now it stood up in unruly spikes, the victim of many running-a-hand-through moments that night, Oswald deduced. Well, he would be damned if he couldn’t solve Jeremiah’s problem by the end of the night. He knew he could do it.

But it was going to take more booze.

Reaching for the tequila bottle a third time, Oswald replenished his supply of filled shot glasses, sliding a few over to Jeremiah, who set aside his now-empty glass and accepted them gratefully. They downed the shots in unison, then Oswald slouched back in his seat and gave the other an intent stare.

“Oh, I can help with your problems. Trust me. I know _everything _about relationships.”

Jeremiah’s eyes went wide. “How did you—”

“Why else would you have ended up in this hole-in-the-wall dump at three a.m?” he countered knowingly. “See? I understand you. So tell me what’s wrong.” When Jeremiah didn’t reply, absorbed in downing another shot, Oswald raised one eyebrow. “Let me guess. Bruce Wayne has been ignoring you.”

His companion choked mid-gulp of his tequila, sputtering a mouthful of booze as he tried to regain his composure. He failed miserably, and turned abruptly to Oswald, swiping one hand across his mouth and smearing the dark lipstick he’d painstakingly applied earlier that night. “_What?”_

“You mean, _how did you guess?”_ Oswald grinned, knowing he was drunk by now but not caring. “Well, for starters, you have a letter addressed to Wayne Manor sticking out of your coat pocket.”

Jeremiah looked down at the jacket he was wearing, his eyes traveling to the incriminating letter. He snatched it away, crumpling it up in his fist and tossing it over his shoulder. “Whatever.”

“Seems a bit of overkill to me. I mean, if you’re trying to get his attention. You’ve got to do it subtly. Just send him a nice little text or something to let him know you’re thinking about him, you know?”

“Right, Mr. Expert.” Jeremiah whipped his phone from his pocket and tossed it over to Oswald, who caught it with surprising deftness, considering his blood alcohol content was inhumanly high. “You’re so good at advice, tell me why he hasn’t answered _any _of those.”

“Those?” Oswald echoed, opening the messages app on the phone and stopping when he saw Bruce’s name as the only one listed. The last message, sent from Jeremiah, had been delivered an hour before. He began scrolling up, shaking his head disapprovingly as the messages appeared endlessly. Jeremiah stared at him helplessly, and this time he was the one to reach out for the tequila bottle. 

“I don’t understand it.”

“Well, this particular one says you were going to kill his butler if he didn’t meet you for coffee, so that may have come off a bit strong.” Oswald commented. “And this one,” he scrolled down further to a novel-length message that grew increasingly desperate at each word, “you mentioned demolishing his company’s office building. Neither of those scream _affection _to me, at least at first glance.”

“Okay, so what do I say?” Jeremiah threw his hands up helplessly. “I don’t know how to make him stop ignoring me, and at this point I can’t show up at his house without the old guy trying to throw me off the roof.”

“The roof?”

“Yeah.” Jeremiah checked the contents of the tequila bottle to ensure there was enough left.

“Why the roof?”

“Oh, that was the time he caught me climbing in the window. Bruce’s room is up there, on the second floor, and I thought I would…”

“Okay, again, that’s an example of coming off a bit strong.” Oswald interrupted, handing the phone back to him. “I’d imagine that Wayne doesn’t really appreciate breaking and entering as a profession of love.”

“So how else am I supposed to talk to him?”

He considered that for a moment. “Perhaps it would be better received if you send the invitation without the threat. Like, _how about coffee, _but omit the whole murdering-the-butler thing. Just a simple hey, how are you doing, why don’t we hang out, and boom, you don’t even have to threaten him. It’s _easy.”_

Jeremiah pursed his lips, looking unconvinced. “I don’t know…”

“Take it from me, they don’t respond well when you threaten the people they supposedly care about.” Oswald said in a superior tone. “Being tied to a car and nearly killed by a bucket of acid taught me that lesson.”

Jeremiah was too wrapped up in his own misery to listen. “Yeah, whatever.”

“Trust me on this one.”

He narrowed his eyes. “So just, what? Ask him…what am I supposed to ask him?”

“Here, I’ll do it.” Oswald snatched the phone back from him, fingers flying with surprising dexterity as he typed up a message and pressed “send.” Nodding to himself, he added aloud, “You’ve gotta make sure they get the message that you care, but just don’t, you know, threaten people or kill anyone. Just a nice normal invitation.” He slid the phone across the counter to Jeremiah, who looked at the screen.

_“hey wnat to hangg out n get coffe e sometime i love u by the wayy ;)”_

Oswald, whose drunkenness had reached new heights within the past half hour of his existence, smiled proudly. Jeremiah smiled back, looking almost hopeful.

“You think he’ll like it?” 

“He’ll _love _it.” Oswald assured him, pouring a congratulatory glass for himself. Jeremiah followed suit.

“Where should we go? I don’t know where to buy coffee here, Ecco usually—”

He broke off as a notification popped up onto the darkened phone screen, and both of their attentions shot directly to it expectantly.

They stared at it, disapproval on Oswald’s face, sheer horror on Jeremiah’s.

“_Bruce Wayne has blocked you.”_

It was the last straw for the younger of the two, and he slumped forward, face flat against the surface of the bar. The phone clattered to the floor, and he made no move to pick it up. Oswald winced, hoping the other hadn’t broken his nose at the impact, but Jeremiah said nothing. 

“Um.” he began, picking apart a brown paper napkin as he spoke, “Well, that’s unfortunate, but don’t panic, it’s not the end.”

“Don’t panic?” Jeremiah’s voice screeched, muffled against the countertop. “How can I not panic when he _hates _me? Now I have to go back to his house and try to get in again and the butler’s gonna see me and he’ll—”

“Oh, shut up.” Oswald, even drunk, was unsympathetic. “If you have a breakdown right now, I’m going to stab you in the eye with my lapel pin.”

Jeremiah sniffed, still facedown on the bar. “You _ruined _our relationship.”

“I doubt that, considering you were the one who apparently got caught crawling through his window, which, by the way, you could be arrested for. On multiple counts.”

“That was _one _time.”

“You know what wasn’t one time? The billion and one texts you sent him over the past week or something.” Oswald scoffed. “I mean, give the kid a break. Space to breathe, you know?”  
“I don’t know. I thought it was working out.” He sat up slowly, the picture of abject despair.

“How was it working out? You were the only one sending messages. He was clearly ignoring you.”

“Maybe you’re just being stupid.”

“Maybe you’re just being a bitch.”

Jeremiah looked like he was going to have another breakdown, so Oswald added hurriedly, “Just give it time. Let it sit for awhile. You’ll find a way.” The other looked unconvinced and just as despondent as before, only more drunk this time. “Just get creative. Like, not stalker-ish creative, because that’ll likely get you nearly killed at the end of a pier or something like that,” Jeremiah looked a bit confused at the oddly specific scenario, “and you don’t want to have to go through the trouble.”

They were silent for a moment, keeping to their own thoughts, and the music on the radio switched back to “Unchained Melody”. Oswald scrunched his face up in disapproval, but his hatred for the song wasn’t so strong this time around. Sure, he still hated it, but at least he had nearly half a bottle of tequila in his system to drown it out.

Jeremiah spoke up again, eyes glazed over from drunkenness, but ideas still apparently swirling around in his head.

“Do you think he’d appreciate nudes?”

Oswald shook his head. “Doubt it.”

“Tasteful ones?”

“No.”

Jeremiah slouched down in his seat, picking up the shot glass and swirling the tequila around. “This’ll never work out.”

“Most likely, but never say never.”

“A bit oxymoronic of you, don’t you think?”

“Again, shut up.”

The music droned on around them in the silence. Nearly every other patron had left, either because they didn’t want to be in the vicinity of two wanted and dangerous criminals, or they had grown tired of the self-pitying conversation they’d been forced to overhear for the past half hour. In any case, the only one resilient enough to remain was the bartender who, after seeing that Oswald had taken it upon himself to serve them, had retreated to a corner of the room and busied himself with reading the newspaper.

Jeremiah pouted. “I still like the idea of nudes.”

“Yeah, but you know who won’t.”

“Who?”

“Every single person you ever propose that idea to.” Oswald poured out the last of the booze into their shot glasses. “Including me, so I’d like you to take this opportunity and tell you to keep your wonderful ideas to yourself.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“You think things will work out?”

Oswald didn’t, but he also didn’t want to deal with another round of reassurances to fix the other’s bruised ego, so he settled for a simple, “Yes.”

“Better come soon. I can’t keep climbing up the side of manors forever. Specially when there’s a butler trying to shoot me out of the window like a squirrel or something.”

“Well, things’ll be more cheerful tomorrow.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. That’s how it always is.”

Jeremiah looked half-convinced. “Tomorrow better come quick then.”

“Until then, bottoms up.” Oswald concluded, tapping their glasses together as the tequila sloshed haphazardly against the sides. Jeremiah sighed.

“If only.”

\+ + + + + + +

Standing outside the bar in the cold of the night, two figures watched disapprovingly at the ones inside. Bruce Wayne was shaking his head, and glanced over at Edward Nygma, who looked equally displeased. 

“Why don’t we just leave them here for now?” the latter spoke up, eyebrows raised as he studied the sight before him. “Give them a day to work through the terrible hangovers that will no doubt ensue. In other words, a day of peace for the both of us.” He adjusted his bowler hat, looking relieved at the thought.

Bruce nodded, grimacing when Jeremiah slid off the barstool and down to the floor, landing in a boneless heap of glittery purple jacket and ruffled green hair while Oswald laughed, bottle in one hand, individual shot glasses long abandoned.

“Glad to see we understand each other.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed the nonsense! Leave a comment letting me know what you think, and thanks for reading!


End file.
